


oscillate

by monado



Series: callisto [5]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Facials, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, M/M, Masochism, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Robodick., That's it, Trans Samuel Rodrigues, sam gets a robodick, sort of public lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monado/pseuds/monado
Summary: He's cyborgenoughto… capitalize.





	oscillate

**Author's Note:**

> sorry mom

Robotics are useful _and_ cool.

 

If you ignore the part where your not-boyfriend-because-he’s-technically-married has to charge himself for an hour a day. And that, sometimes, you have to join him. And that sometimes one or both of you ends up blowing out the power.

 

Once you get past that, it's nice.

 

Sam's a lucky one. He's a cyborg, but he's mostly intact. He doesn't lapse into dysphoria these days, for the most part, and is certainly long, long past the worst of it. He's lucky.

 

But he's cyborg _enough_ to… capitalize.

 

He's not a patient man, and Jack’s far, far from an exception to the rule. But his flare for the dramatic is equally as important, and for that, he is willing to play the game.

 

He watches as Raiden darts, form crackling with red and blue sparks, leaving trails of blood in his wake. Sam just leans on his sword, fresh with deep red stains, and watches as Raiden disembowels a man with his foot and a blade. His movements mirror the beating of Sam’s heart.

 

The man slumps to the ground. Raiden stands over him a moment, then brings his sword up in front of his face, leisurely. He examines it, wipes the pad of a finger through the red.

 

Perfect.

 

Sam walks up, toting his sword over his shoulder. Raiden’s head snaps towards Sam, an animal reaction that has the adrenaline pricking his skin, telling him to _go go move_. He smiles, instead, anticipation building heavy in his core.

 

It's not routine, but it's close enough at this point, for Sam to swing around and kiss the life out of Jack on bloodstained fields. Battle highs are incredible. It makes Jack less reserved, rougher, and it makes him _vocal_. No downsides.

 

It's no different this time. He bites Jack’s upper lip, digs his teeth in none too gently. A heavy breath ghosts across his chin. He goes to roll it between his tongue and teeth when Jack grabs his jaw, pushes him down, and slides his tongue in, rough but soft. The corners of Sam’s mouth lift.

 

Jack seems to take that as a taunt because he immediately tries to push Sam further. Sam isn't weak, though, and isn't feeling this rhythm today, so he doesn't budge. He bites Jack’s tongue, kisses his lip, pulls away. Jack’s claws curl into the sides of his head and he looks at him heavily.

 

The possessiveness is cute, it really is. (Well, less cute and more hot, but he's trying to remain in control here.) In retaliation, Sam slides his hands up from metal shoulders and into Jack’s hair. His eyes fall half-lidded. “Mm, aren't you a pretty sight.”

 

His lip is flushed red, swollen and mottled already. Frustration laced with want means a steady rumble to Jack’s voice. “I think you say that every time.”

 

Sam laughs, lowly. “Well, then, it must be true.” The pressure on his codpiece is uncomfortable, straining. He trails a hand down, slowly enough to guarantee Jack’s gaze, flattens his palm over the curved metal. He drags his other hand across Jack’s collarbones, jagged edges not quite piercing his gloves. The suggestion is explicit, and they're definitely on the same page when Sam pulls him towards the shade of a tree.

 

“Are we ever going to fuck somewhere normal,” is Jack’s smartass remark as Sam pushes him to the ground against wide, rough bark.

 

He laughs, kneels. “What, like on a bed?” They'd done it twice, once with acceptable results, and once with a disastrous ending.

 

Jack’s breath hitches as Sam wiggles his fingers under his chestpiece. “We can just break it again,” he says, and Sam pushes hard to scold him. A jagged noise spills from his lips. “W-We’re not exactly hard up.”

 

Absolutely _beautiful_ opportunity. “For cash, yes. In other departments? I beg to differ.” He waits a beat, and Jack rolls his eyes, bats Sam’s hands away.

 

“God. Sometimes I wonder why I tolerate you.” He stares, balefully, but ever with an edge of heat.

 

Sam hums. “I wasn't joking.”

 

The heat is eclipsed by incredulity, then suspicion. “Uh-huh.” A beat. “What are you up to?”

 

“Why, I thought you'd never ask.”

 

Releasing the clasp, he sets his codpiece to the side, begins lazily stroking before he turns back. Raiden’s affectation has cracked down the middle. A pink wash curls outwards on his real skin and his eyebrows slash downwards. His eyes lock, lips just open.

 

Sam’s not going to buy a robodick and _not_ go the nine miles.

 

“Like what you see?” He smiles, makes sure to do the smug one that annoys Jack the most. He pulls a fist up the length, breath rising, and then back down. He drags a hand up the underside, traces his finger along the head. Artificial lubricant trails along his finger’s path. “It's nice. New feeling, obviously. It's both like and unlike rolling my clit.” He thumbs a ridge, finding it extra sensitive, and his throat clenches. “It's -- ah -- different. Good different.”

 

Jack’s expression does a number of hoops as he speaks. He settles on bewildered interest, cheeks stained pretty. “When did you- why-” he stops. He clearly wants to touch, but he won't. Prude.

 

“Pretty recently. Turns out there are some benefits to being mostly cyborg near the waist.” The flicker of guilt is predictably present in Jack’s eye for a moment before it’s swallowed, pointedly, as Sam slides his palm up.

 

“But why is it- why would you.” The patchy pink of his real skin stands in stark contrast to the cut of faux skin around and under the corners of his mouth. “It’s blue?”

 

A smile breaks across Sam’s face, wide and holding back laughter. “Yes it is.”

 

He can't help himself -- Jack’s reactions are hilarious. He twists his wrist in that way he knows feels good and lets his voice hum in his throat, tilts his head back to expose the column of his neck. Jack takes a moment to follow up on his words. “It's blue.” A pause. “It's… blue. And probably barely human. And- did you really have to make it…” His lip twists over metal. Sam wants to nip it. “You really don't pull any punches, do you.”

 

He doesn't stop the laugh this time. “Nope. Not gonna spend this much money on something and _not_ go the nine yards.” He quirks an eyebrow, but the effect is lost since the single blue eye is fixed on his cool, not-modest, ridged robodick.

 

“No balls is kind of weird, still.”

 

Leave it to Jack to nitpick. “Waste of materials. Cost a lot as is.”

 

Chagrin brings his gaze back up. Sam makes sure to give himself a few tugs while maintaining eye contact, lets the spreading heat show in his face. Jack’s gaze flickers. “I- it’s still weird, is all.”

 

Impatience has Sam forward on his knees, crowding him against the bark. Jack may need some loosening up. “Sure, but I can still come.” Jack’s frame tightens. “Besides, this way it's easy access,” he says, voice low, reaches a hand down and slides two fingers into his aching pussy. The stretch stings and he grins, pushing in deep and hard and letting a shuddering moan as he rocks slowly. Hands grasp his face, and a talon pulls at his bottom lip. It pierces the skin, a bit, and he can feel the warmth of the blood tracking down.

 

Jack’s pupil is blown, a slivering ring of colour the only indication his eyes aren't black. His lip is parted from mechanical teeth, and once a dark tongue darts out to wet it Sam meets him in the middle. It’s messy, tongues missing mouths and teeth clacking and suction breaking suddenly at the up and down of Sam as he rocks back and forth. His cheeks are pulled back by the force of Jack’s grip.

 

He lifts up, slides his fingers out of him with a wet noise. Jack stares, chest heaving as Sam pushes his jaw down with a thumb and slides in fingers covered in slick. Jack accepts it sedately, gaze flat and narrowed as he laves his tongue around the digits, as he tastes and sucks and bites. He tilts his head as he does it, eye contact unbreaking as he hums a deep rumble, takes Sam’s fingers deep.

 

Sam pets the side of his face idly, smoothing over the milky smooth skin and hardened metal alike. Jack’s spit on his fingers, trailing slowly towards his knuckles, is perhaps the only organic fluid he can produce. Sam has no problems with the artificial, none at all, but something is _hot_ about it; touching something so intimate, fleeting and sparing, and watching Jack _really_ enjoy covering him with it, watching him pull off with a _pop_ and a trail of saliva.

 

He hums, smiles, brings his wet fingers down to circle the head of his cock. Jack watches his every move. “How would you feel about something much _bigger_ , hm?”

 

The already stained cheeks darken considerably. Jack stares as Sam grasps a fist around the length and pumps slowly. He's surprised at the fervour with which he wants Jack’s mouth. He wants to take it, wants to ruin it. “I, uh,” he stammers. Jack’s jaw hangs oh-so-pretty between his words. He can imagine it wrecked so easily.

 

A beat passes before he reaches tentatively, replacing Sam’s hand with a light touch. His breath sucks in between his teeth. Even the light contact is intoxicating, and his hips jerk upwards without thought. It spooks Jack, and for an awful moment Sam thinks he might call it off -- instead, something steels in his eyes and he grasps hard. The shock of discomfort almost does more than the pleasure does, and Sam throws his head back, a loose noise spilling from his mouth. It emboldens Jack, clearly, since he starts to move.

 

The pace is maddeningly slow. Sam has to brace an arm on the tree to facilitate his restrained bucking; he doesn't want to overdo it, but he’ll be damned if one conscious thought manages to rattle its way past the slick slide of Jack’s fist.

 

Unscrewing his eyes is hard but worth it to see Jack’s face. His mouth is pursed, his eyes down and so focused, bashful but intrigued. He knows how to wring heat out of him, rubbing under the head and down the front, over the row of ridges in movements Sam knows are practised. He wonders what Raiden looked like, when he had his real dick. How often he touched himself. In what ways he did.

 

No reason not to share. A hard twist of the wrist interrupts his inhale and he groans, thrusts up before speaking. “How many times have you done this,” he rumbles, low enough to be a murmur. “Jacked yourself off just like this.” The hand stutters. His words are getting to him already, like they always do. “Taken yourself apart, fucking into your hand.” A sharp inhale has Sam’s tongue darting out. “ _God,_ I bet you were even more sensitive than you are now. Screaming into your pillow when you come, no one listening but hiding yourself anyway. Always so embarrassed.” The grip is hard, fast. “I would've liked to taste it.” Sam has to let himself exhale in time with the harder, punishing pumps before recovering enough to speak. “Did you ever play with your ass? D-Did you finger yourself, or use toys? I can imagine your- tight little ass, full and-”

 

Sam is knocked to the dirt with an _oof_. He leans up on his elbows to the sight of Jack kneeling, tucking his hair behind his mechanics.

 

Spit pools in Sam’s mouth and he swallows hard as Jack leans down. He seems suddenly unsure how to proceed, and jerks him roughly in the interim, gaze flitting up and down almost apprehensively. In a motion as adorable as it is unfitting to the rhythm, he kisses the tip gently. Sam can feel it twitch and strain, heartbeat pounding somewhere between his thighs; he smiles, hums encouragingly.

 

Jack glances up. “I don't know what I'm doing, so don't complain,” is all he says before dragging the flat of his tongue across the head. The texture is slightly scratchy, and he calibrated his dick a bit oversensitive anyway, so the responding breath rushing into him is almost painful in its intensity. His arms wobble under his weight.

 

Warm wet heat trails its way up the underside of his dick. It's hesitant, but hard -- Jack knows what he likes, anatomy notwithstanding.

 

He stops for a moment, sits up a bit. In a move that reveals he’s more self-conscious than he’d thought, he pushes three digits into Sam, in the exact way he likes it. He crooks aggressively, drawing out moans from Sam, in time with the battering. It's only after establishing this baseline of pleasure that he returns to the cock, inhaling deeply before sliding his lips down over the tip.

 

It's searing, rushing, not enough. He tries his best not to buck, letting Jack move at his own pace, but it's hard when he's not only on his dick but inside him, too. Fingers have slowed to nothing to match the other movement, and everything throbs and aches and he wants to fuck him, choke him, make him writhe.

 

Instead, he sucks in hard breaths as Jack takes the head, a bit of the length, stops and starts bobbing hesitantly. His mouth is so hot, leaving him chilled when he rises, deeply satisfied when he slides back down. He sucks, gingerly, cheeks flexing concave, and Sam _keens_. It would be embarrassing if he didn't have so much of a distraction.

 

A blue eye turns upwards. Meeting his gaze seems to add confidence, and he doesn't break it even when Sam sits up higher. His eyelashes fall pretty, cheeks hollowed and tongue flicking against and around the length as metal teeth graze the underside aggressively. He isn't sucking more than half of it, but it's everything and more than Sam could ever imagine.

 

It's not that he's great at it, though Sam wouldn't have a frame of reference for that. It's the slow transition from hesitation to enthusiasm, from demure lowered eyes to hawkish eye contact, taking more in by the second, tongue blocking metal teeth only to pull back and scrape.

 

He thrives under the attention, he thinks. His aggression spikes, and he moves faster, rougher -- he splays his claws, testing the limits of the cock -- gently, gently presses until the skin splits. It's so pointed, so shockingly painful and the moan that tears itself ragged falls as one of Sam’s arms tries to buckle. He shifts his weight onto one arm, threads his hand into white hair and holds, hard, as a tongue laps at the pinprick wounds, as a groan trembles out from a coarse throat. It vibrates into his cock, through his chest and into his toes, and he feels a familiar coiling inside of him, at the visual, the wet warmth, the fullness. He is full, and throbbing in pain and throbbing in release and he tightens.

 

Jack pops off, lip swollen and ragged from the bumps. He breathes hard, stroking punishingly and fucking deep with his fingers. His eyelids are heavy and his lips open. “Come for me.”

 

His voice is wrecked. White breaks across the sight, blanking everything into spots and stars, curling Sam’s toes and back and clenching his throat. He clenches down on hard metal; he twitches under hard metal; it's all that exists. Jack’s mouth is open, eye down as clear white streaks onto his tongue and onto his cheeks. It dribbles down the metal as he pumps and pumps, in his hair and in his eyelashes. Heat tightens to a fever pitch and wrings everything out, the world a pinpoint of white and grey and blue.

 

The ringing in his ears gives way to bone-numbing strokes that have him heaving, overstimulation heavy and burning, shocks coursing. Discomfort heightens into pain, pain that can’t convert to any other bodily reaction and a noise more primal than anything breaks the air. It's swallowed, muffled by tongue and mouth and he twitches as he is overwhelmed and overworked. He tastes salt. He hurts.

 

It's getting to be too much when the pressure stops. Jack’s fingers slide out of him with a horrible noise, and he grips the sides of Sam’s face, dampness rubbing on his cheeks. He heaves, trembling slightly, body coiling threads of afterglow and dull pain into something lukewarm and perfect. Jack kisses him, again, before sitting back on him, reaching to wipe the come out of his hair.

 

In a heroic display of will, Sam grabs his hand, weakly, pulls it down, uses his own to swipe through it. He lowers his fingers, shaking and tacky and wet, to Jack’s mouth, who jerks back.

 

His lip twists. “Leave my mouth alone,” he says, and it's supposed to be chiding but it’s ragged and raspy.

 

Sam laughs. He lets his arm fall and lays back against the patchy grass, breathing hard and feeling loose, open and good.

 

Jack stays on him. His weight is grounding, holding Sam in place and staring as he comes down. His eyes are clear, evaluating.

 

When he catches his breath, Sam grins. “So? Was it everything you ever imagined?”

 

His lip flattens. “I can't believe you made me blow some kind of alien dick.”

 

His eyes reflect the light of Sam’s laugh. “I didn't make you do anything,” he murmurs, sitting up and drawing him into a kiss. It's sweet, gentle; Jack’s eyelash flutters against his closed eye. It's a little tacky, with some of the lashes stuck together.

 

Sam plants a quick peck below his eye, fondness leaking into his fingertips as Jack sighs.

 

"You're going to make this up to me," he mumbles.

 

"Oh, stop pretending it was a chore." Sam pokes a finger into his cheek and Jack glares. "I know you liked it."

 

An attempt at a dismissive head-turn just cements it. He grins.

 

Jack stands up, bends to retrieve his sword, his claws. He waits a beat, then looks down at Sam. "We don't have all day."

 

Sam just laughs as he pushes himself to his feet. He's lucky, all right.

**Author's Note:**

> sssssssssleipnir bad dragon dot com.


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